The Long Apology
by ponponpon
Summary: Wheatley smashes into the backside of a ship, makes a gamble for a human resources position and finds out exactly what they did with the leftovers from his personality core procedure...*UPDATED!*
1. Chapter 1: Maladjusted

**The Long Apology**

**Chapter 1: Maladjusted.**

**Summary**: Wheatley is taken aboard a mysterious ship, can he redeem himself? Will he carve out a new career in 'Human Resources'? Find out! Wheatley/Chell-centric...eventually. Kinda. Sorta.

**A/N**: I don't own Wheatley. And I'm somewhat glad of that fact. He's all Valve's making. As is Portal, Chell, GLaDOS and so on. It's just a fun sandbox to play in. Tons of thanks to my fountain of all Valve knowledge for listening to me pitch increasingly silly Wheatley dialogue and thoughts.

* * *

><p>It was cold.<p>

How long had he been out here? He had run out of conversations to have. There were only so many times you could say 'what an interesting swirly thing' before you wanted to shut up just to give yourself some peace. He kept talking though, he wasn't good with silences and he tried not to annoy himself too much by doing so.

Banality. That was a good word. A good word he knew. Banality was what he did best. The engineers had said so. He rather liked words he could stretch out, lovingly, to fill up the empty space. Every single syllable became a beacon to someone, something, somewhere to come find him, come get him.

Failure was something Wheatley had intimate experience with, ever since his assembly, failure had been his partner in crime, his calling card, his almost-lover that nagged at him relentlessly. How he felt now didn't approach failure but he didn't know a better word, just he was a bad core. Rotten to the core, that must have been about him. He sighed. Wheatley, personality core, always led by reputation.

The other feeling, the eating everything up good in his head one (he needed to remember the word for that word) munched on every happy moment he had had with...her. She had never told him to shut up but she hadn't caught him either. Not that he deserved it. Somehow, Wheatley was beginning to feel he didn't deserve this either.

Oh, Chell! he called out. He had long stopped feeling disappointed about the answering silence and the lack of Chell popping into existence beside him. She wasn't exactly going to stroll out from behind an asteroid and greet him with open arms, was she? She might like space though. It was a bit like going into a portal and never coming out the other side. A bit.

He struggled to remember her clearly but dreaded accessing his recordings. Temptation gave in but he knew he didn't deserve even that and the visual shut down with a beep. File corrupted. The audio played on, eerily amplified through his own audio system.

"Let's begin the games-"

Wheatley wished he could do something, anything to dissolve those feelings. Smash himself against a planet or throw himself into a star but he was in dead space. Empty. So bloody empty. Just him and his lab smarts. Which had gotten him here in the first place.

As the hours wandered on, Wheatley was so absorbed in his wounded psyche (the straggly, ragtag emotional basket he had constructed to represent one, anyway) he didn't notice the ship until he smashed into it. Then he promptly powered down.

* * *

><p>He had been intrigued to find an AI unit in the debris from the collision. Although it accounted for the damage on his vessel and he needed no more than to note the measurements, velocity, weight and manufacture of the model (presumably so the company could claim compensation back at planet of origin) he brought it aboard anyway. It had been a strange morning, waking up from twenty years deep sleep and being sent straight outside for repair work. It was unusual. It did not follow typical regulations.<p>

He put the unit into a sterilizing chamber and stood outside, waiting, while chewing a tasteless, stringy substance which the console informed him was breakfast. There had been no communication from planet of origin apart from a brief missive imploring him to stay on track. He was not worried. He had six months of data collection here, then he could sleep again.

Clicking his helmet back on, he rolled the sphere out and carried it to the repair station. The casing was damaged, though the optical functions were in working order, and apparently it was still working. Obviously went into power-down mode as protection, a strange tactic for any AI. He rolled it along the table, rewarded with the rattling of loose components.

On the access hatch was a logo he had never seen before, though something stirred within him, an almost primal reaction. He pushed it aside, promising himself he'd take some pills after he'd finished this task. The ship shuddered around him, as if impatient.

Aperture Science. The words were meaningless and neutral to him. Sliding it open, a tumble of circuit boards and wiring flopped out. Messy. The auto-repair program was obviously offline.

But what if he could fit the unit with a propulsion device? That could be useful in collecting data. More data meant better science would happen. He remembered that very clearly.

* * *

><p>...he woke up on a stranger's lap. There was something very wrong about this. Searching memory for identity. <em>None found, memory partially lost, memory restore in progress<em>. Oh, he would have to lose the bit with his name in it! He had a good view of the floor though, polished metal, and he had a horrible feeling that the rest of the room was white. Much like the Testing Chambers.

He rolled his optic sensor around to get a look at his captor/carer. It was a spacesuit. Could be anything in that. Even monkeys. They blew up stuff, monkeys. The glassy dome reflected a distorted metal ball at him which after a few seconds, he realised was him. With a sigh, he hoped his memory would restore some sort of sense to him. He was all discombobulated. He remembered floating in space. A song.

"Floating in space, when you've done something wrong, feels like I'm saying sorry for ever so long"

The song didn't cheer him up. Maybe songs didn't. Maybe he liked dirty jokes. He remembered some engineers telling one about a woman with rather large...no, that didn't cheer him up. Maybe he didn't like boobies either. What did he like? He definitely did not like floating in space. He did like...something. So hard to grasp right now...everything was jumbled up inside. More than usual.

He had totally forgotten about the spacesuit, being startled by him when he looked up again, then rolled his optic around as far as possible to take in his surroundings. Testing Chamber white. Still, definitely a vast improvement over floating in space until the heat death of the universe. As days went, this was a good one.

"You collided with my ship"

Was it his destiny to be hounded by disaster at every turn?

"I'm sorry!" he burst out. He was fairly certain he wasn't some sort of a rogue criminal personality core. "I can fix it though, dead good with my hands, I am...well, figuratively speaking..."

The spacesuit somehow radiated an air of skepticism that crushed the burgeoning idea that he - Wheatley, at last, his name! - could have some part to play on this ship. "Actually, mate, if I recall...you crashed into me. You're at fault here, now I'm happy not to get anyone involved if you are-"

"I have transmitted details of the collison to planet of origin" said the spacesuit.

"Ah. Righty then. Suppose there isn't much I can do about it now..."

"No" said the spacesuit, fiddling with a valve on his cuff. A few seconds later, a crunching sound told Wheatley his new best friend had his mouth occupied.

"You sure? I could pull some strings-"

"There's nothing you could do, unit"

Wasn't much he could say to that. Wheatley felt awkwardly ill-equipped for conversation, only knowing his name and his core nature but not his core calling. Perhaps he was an Spy Core. He swiveled around to look in the nearest reflective surface only to be disappointed by the lack of go faster stripes. Spy Cores had those.

"My name's Wheatley" he said, determined to carry a conversation even if it blew his circuitry. "Like the food...or cereal."

"I eat a synthesized blend of essential carbohydrates, proteins and fats. It is optimally designed to satisfy my nutritional requirements. I have no experience of your food or cereal, unit"

"Wheatley, my name is Wheatley"

"We're going to the lab, unit."

* * *

><p>It was so long since he had spoken to anything approaching AI, the ship had an auto-pilot function but nothing that encouraged familiarity and dependence. This unit seemed to have extensive memories (even if they were a little jumbled), he had to make plans to use them at some point, pulling down a screen to tap in a request. The ship squawked in disapproval, so he punched in a over-ride code. He didn't use it often and he hoped it would pass. It did.<p>

The sphere was obviously close to being space garbage but something about the patheticness of it made him reluctant to jettison it right back out. There was something about the design, about the AI that had stirred his curiousity.

"I had to remove some of your damaged componants though I should be able to salvage the recordings you may have made. You should have some interesting recordings and observations of space phenomena"

Wheatley didn't know at this moment but there was no way he had the capacity to describe and record scientifically useful data, if he had, surely the definitive mysteries of the universe would have been solved but all he had was the robotic attitude of 'I went to space and all I got was this lousy t-shirt' and a picture of a piece of debris that had reminded of Chell. If she didn't have arms. Not knowing this possibly saved his electronic life as he couldn't blab himself into being discarded.

The man on the other hand was developing a rapidly disquieting opinion of the unit as he walked to the lab. The unit displayed a full range of reactions, due to the clever manipulation of its mechanical workings but something wasn't right with this AI or its design, the humanity of it was rather awkward and uncomfortable to deal with. He checked his bio-reader and saw he was due more pills in an hour. It couldn't come soon enough.

In the lab, the bench held the scattered remains of the unit's surgery. Hopefully the unit's self-repairing program would recognise them.

"Bloody hell, there's all my private bits! My training protocol processor!" the unit exclaimed. It seemed that everything surprised the unit, perhaps his - no, its short-term memory was permanently damaged. "Just hanging out on that bench, would you look at that?"

The man waited for the unit's fascination to fade. There was no need to hurry, he had all the time in the universe. Ten minutes later, the unit had gone silent, it sounded troubled by this development, of having its insides outside, that the man felt that feeling again. Nagging away. The pills did nothing to dull it and a prickle of fear? concern? dragged down his spine.

"Mate, would you mind giving me a hand here?" the unit asked, cajolingly as the man set him on the bench. "I understand if you don't want to put your hand in there, neither would I to be perfectly honest - what was that! Be gentle in there! I'm not a pinball machine!"

It seemed now the unit was aware, the auto-repair system was online, if a little sluggish. It clicked things into place, flipping out tiny soldering irons to seal them in snugly. Old this unit was, there was certainly flair in the interior design and surely much information to be gained about this Aperture Science.

He would have to ask for permission to study the unit. Permission might not be granted for several months. It seemed unlikely it would be granted unless he removed the oral abilities of the unit and that seeming to be missing the point as this unit's data was primarily recalled through oral testimony. Maybe if the memories were successful extracted, he could power down the unit afterwards.

He decided he could let the unit continue in its business for now, clicking the access panel shut and tossing it lightly into the air. It crashed hopelessly to the floor, its optic flickering hopelessly as it tried to roll around.

"Another hand, mate, if you don't mind not dropping me this time?"

* * *

><p>"Aperture Science?" repeated Wheatley. "Never heard of it...APE-PER-TURE...they blew it up! Manics, those monkeys..."<p>

"It said Aperture Science on your casing" the spacesuit said. "I have never heard of an organisation by that name but you don't remember?"

"My memory is still rebooting" said Wheatley hotly. "If it says Aperture Science then I must have worked there, obviously, as a snappy go-getter personality core"

"With your...unique calibrations-"

"You need to forget that tumble from before, mate, I didn't know you'd put a jet-pack on me-"

"A propulsion device, no combustible materials are required-"

Wheatley tuned the Spacesuit out. There wasn't much you could say to him really. Sure, the Spacesuit was plenty strange and odd and possibly brain damaged with his robotic gait and flat, emotionless voice but he seemed alright. A chap you could depend on. And gosh, how he, Wheatley, needed someone to depend on.

But how did he, Wheatley, end up in space? That was a mighty riddle wrapped in bacon wrapped in mystery. He wasn't a Spy Core (_just my luck..._) and he seemed to be quite comfortable, scarily comfortable in fact, rolling along the ceiling, taking everything in. Felt right, that did. No idea how it fitted with anything else. He remembered dully being shown humans, test subjects, and being told...MORON! IDIOT!

He was just plain frightened now. Must have been the wrong track...what if he was a Space Core? That would make sense. A defective Space Core. What did he know about space? What did he know about anything for that matter? He floated over to a corner to think some more, it seemed hard to do this, hard to grasp anything.

That voice was familiar though. Soft but scary. Like a stuffed crocodile. Wheatley didn't want to know anymore about that. Maybe it was just a glitch, crossed wires, a trick of electronics. That was possible...

Then he felt that munching everything good feeling again. And the crushing realisation of his essential Wheatleyness smashed into his sensors like a shock from a faulty socket. ChellChellChellI'msosorry. The Itch. Those spiked metal plates! What had he been thinking? The Itch and the satisfaction and that feeling of just scratching it-

He couldn't let the Spacesuit know.

Not this.

He'd have to lie.

He'd just tell the Spacesuit he was in Human Resources. It wasn't like he could check anyway.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Where will our plucky personality core end up? I can say he'll tell his exclusive side of the story next, learns that everything isn't what it seems and he has more in common with Spacesuit than previously realised...next time!**


	2. Chapter 2: Interesting Drug

**The Long Apology  
>Chapter 2: Interesting Drug.<strong>

Summary: Wheatley has a very interesting dream, makes a pitch for a job in Human Resourcing (on a ship he isn't sure has humans on it) and events take a very surreal turn when he discovers Aperture Science has their fingers in all sorts of pies...or cakes. Whichever you prefer really.

A/N: I don't own any of the Portal characters or concepts. I don't even technically own Spacesuit as you shall see. I do own a great sense of gratitude for the creation of such a damn interesting universe. And as always, to my own personal test subject, who reads these chapters a million times over and still finds nice things to say.

* * *

><p>Oh and sorry this took like a million years to post. Getting a new dog eats into Portal fanfiction time like nobodies business.<p>

* * *

><p>Wheatley was huge. Massive. Humongous. This is what it was like to be a big shot, he thought, his receptors overloaded with relays of information all whispering to him: you're amazing, Wheatley. This was what it was like to be important. Smart. In charge.<p>

And he was amazing. He had fought his way here with Chell, leading the way for the great escape, he had promised his fair maiden nothing less. GLaDOS had been waiting for them, of course, and dealt a curve-ball in declaring her own, mind altering, love for Wheatley.

He had always suspected as much of course, all the sarcasm, the putdowns. The actions of a little girl on the playground too shy to admit her feelings.

After that emotional scene, it had been easy to coax her into the potato under the promise Wheatley had made (with metaphorical crossed-fingers) of making her his 'little woman' and then things had rapidly gotten ugly.

Chell hadn't been too pleased with Wheatley's playacting. It had been hard for Wheatley, knowing how Chell felt about him. How they had nearly kissed when they first met, him dangling from the ceiling, rainwater leaking down the pipes on to her vest making it cling in all sorts of inappropriate ways...

"WE'LL SETTLE THIS IN THE CAKE ARENA OF DEATH THEN!" shrieked GLaDOS.

"You said that didn't exist!" retorted Chell indignantly.

"I lied!" cackled GLaDOS before turning to Wheatley. "Soon, my love, science will bind us together forever!"

"Now, now...ladies, no need to get worked up about this. There's more than enough Wheatley to go around-"

"I'll never share you with that...that future bag of fries!" screamed Chell. "SHE CALLED ME FAT, WHEATLEY!"

"You have a lovely figure, love, honestly..."

"What about me?" demanded GLaDOS, her voice deathly soft. "Wheatley, we're the same...me and you. We could merge as one...she's just a mute fleshbag with fat thighs"

"Who are you calling fat? That potato is loaded with carbs, bitch!"

Wheatley needed to settle this dilemma and soon. He lowered the lights in the chamber and selected some easy-listening to set the atmosphere.

"Ahem, ladies, Cake Arena of Death then?" suggested Wheatley, vainly trying to drown out the passive-aggressive threats flying between the two.

"Fine!" snapped GLaDOS and Chell in unison. For some reason, Chell's jumpsuit seemed a lot more torn up now, revealing an exciting line of flesh across her tummy. She winked and blew a kiss at him, tossing her hair which was remarkably long now and curled around her shoulders.

The Cake Arena of Death resembled a small child's paddling pool filled with cake, cream and chocolate sauce. On the side, presumably the 'death' part, were tiny pink maces and spears. Chell's jumpsuit was practically non-existent now as she stepped in with a determined glare at GLaDOS who hopped in, best she could, being a potato and all.

"Let the games begin!"

For the first few seconds, GLaDOS had the upper...potato? Seeing as she launched herself as Chell's face and then bounced along her breasts and over the next few minutes, the screams ebbed away and became more...breathy and happy sounding.

"Oh, Chell...your touch-"

On cue, Wheatley lowered himself above the arena with the can of whipped cream, "So how are my sexy, beautiful ladies?"

* * *

><p>"Unit...UNIT!"<p>

"Wha...what? I was resting my eye for a bit-"

"You were in sleep mode" replied the Spacesuit, turning back to his work. Spacesuit worked in twenty hour shifts and Wheatley had been on the ship for fifteen, mostly racking his limited resources into making a pitch for a position on the ship so he didn't get booted off. He was never going back to that outside, no way.

Where was he going though? Spacesuit was very edgy with any answers to that saying it was none of his business. Wheatley needed a position of trust, of responsibility, if he was ever going to find out anything.

He felt the familiar sinking feeling, as cosy as a bed of rusty nails, of impending failure. His employment history wasn't exactly illustrious, being summed up as the following:

_Okay, mate, I accidentally killed all the humans under my care, guided the only survivor through a hellish maze the likes of which you wouldn't believe and wasn't much help there either if I'm honest, attacked a psychotic AI and put her in a potato even though she was definitely better qualified for the job of psychotic AI, became a bit of a knob because of power absolutely and then was shot into space for aforementioned knobbery. _

Oh, and he had been used as a projector on 'Bring Your Daughter To Work' day.

"Unit? You should be recording these measurements"

"Mate, I know but the ship is recording them, you're recording them, a video recording is being made...it's not like an explosion, you don't need it from all different angles" Wheatley pointed out. "A core of my standing - floating - needs to be where the action is if you catch my drift?"

"I do not catch your drift, unit"

"I was in Human Resources...might there be some humans on here in need of resourcing?" he asked hopefully. He mentally prayed that Spacesuit wasn't some sort of human-eating alien because Wheatley felt certain his human endangering days were behind him.

"Which department did you report to?"

"Banality. Very important department. I was in charge of...reading - to the test subjects! Making sure they didn't kill themselves through neglect and I had to make sure the other AI at the lab was doing her job...between me and you, she was a little slow...but yep, that's me...good ol' Wheatley down in Banality Department!"

"Banality?" asked Spacesuit.

"Yep."

"I don't think that word means what you think it means, unit"

"Company lingo, mate" answered Wheatley, smoothly. It wouldn't help to point out how stupid this Spacesuit was at the moment.

"How did you end up in space, unit?"

Okay, Wheatley, it's practically in the bag...just don't screw this up...

"You know that AI I mentioned before...she was a bit sweet on me, as the ladies are, but I was more into another...co-worker. Another girl. She went a bit mental, took over Aperture and punched me into space when I wouldn't go out with her" he said, adding his best 'women, huh?' look for maximum effect.

"Aperture Science programmed their units to feel love, attachment?" asked Spacesuit.

At least he wasn't questioning the physics of being punched into space.

"I wouldn't say...programmed, it's something I learned on the job, I guess"

* * *

><p>"Where am I?"<p>

"You're home, Wheatley, you're at Aperture Science. The procedure was a success. You should be very proud"

It took a few moments for this new, strange, thing called proud to happen to him and when it did, it was like a warm tickle in his brain. How lovely. He could feel proud forever.

"Your job is to be you, understand? Your programming, your coding, your natural personality will all help you do this"

Wheatley understood, somehow he knew he was destined for this and flickering into being was just so overwhelming...he never wanted to close his optic ever again. What would he miss? He wanted to know everything.

Over the next few weeks, he travelled through corridors, rolling along. Some of the engineers and scientists avoided him, lowering their eyes and hurrying down a corridor his track didn't cover.

The test subjects were friendly though.

"What happens when they get smashed like that?" he asked offhandedly. The chatter in the room died away and his handler, a young woman, looked up at him.

"Well, Wheatley, it's like sleeping. They just go to sleep"

"And repair?"

"No, they don't repair. They just stay asleep and then we put them into bed, underground."

It had been easy to accept then. But some test subjects were related, the same serial number, his handler explained to him. They didn't like someone they knew going to sleep before them, especially the little ones. They cried and wailed for days afterwards.

He had been rolling along the Relaxation Facility corridors when he came across a test subject, kicking at a vending machine.

"What's the matter? That machine is for Aperture employees only but I can have so-"

The test subject looked up at him, eyes hardening.

"My mother is dead and you said she'd be okay"

* * *

><p>"What exactly are you proposing, unit?" Spacesuit was clearly wanting to get on with his work.<p>

"I could manage resources, y'know. A bit of...testing here, a bit of testing there. Some counselling for any traumatised...you have rats. I could look after those, mate"

All Wheatley knew about rodents was they liked steamboats. And wearing shorts.

"You do not understand the work that is being processed aboard this ship...you don't even know the ship's name, how is it logical to assign to you an experiment chamber?"

Spacesuit was crunching on something again, thankfully giving Wheatley a few moments to construct a counter argument.

"I crashed into the backside of it and how am I supposed to know anything? You won't tell me anything, mate, and I do want to help. Honest" he widened his optic as far as possible, adding a little twinkle effect.

"You can ask the Smart Box what Aperture Science information it may have and then report back to me" said the Spacesuit after a minute. "I feel your data on that subject is biased and inadmissible as scientific evidence"

Alright! A job! A job that was asking questions! That had Wheatley all over it. He also felt a sudden rush of affection for Spacesuit, he wasn't so bad, he was proper decent even.

"Um, mate, where is the Smart Box? Actually, what is a Smart Box?"

"Every ship issued by the company contains a Smart Box containing all known historical and cultural data of planet of origin. In case of emergencies, the Smart Box can be used to communicate our history to hostile presences, only technology can communicate with it"

"Ah, I see. That's why you want me to go ask" answered Wheatley, feeling a little deflated.

"I did not request feedback" Spacesuit replied shortly. "There is an access panel across the room, attach yourself and run program Smart Box Alpha"

Maybe I should pitch a casual Friday or something for morale, thought Wheatley as he floated over to the access panel. Spacesuit needed to loosen up a little. All those pills he took made him grouchy.

* * *

><p>"Salutations! This is the Smart Box program, planet of origin, Earth! If you have disembowelled the being on this ship, doing so is an act of war against-"<p>

"No-one's been hurt, mate" interjected Wheatley. The Smart Box sounded like a refined him which was disconcerting. It also had chosen to represent itself as a little paper-clip which was depressing. "I'm here for some information-"

"Might I ask, good sir, what be your reasons for that?"

"Do I need a reason?"

The paper-clip had eyebrows which it was raising alternatively. It hopped over towards Wheatley who was represented, rather predictably, as himself but smaller and with go faster stripes.

"Oh, yes, my good chum, you see, we can't have the on-board specimen finding out all our little secrets now, can we?"

"I'm not with him, he's just...y'know. A Spacesuit. I'm not sure what he is, to be honest, though I guess I could ask you...if I could ask you..."

The paper-clip took out a clipboard. Man alive. "It says here I can only authorise information exchange with new lifeforms by way of their technology-"

"I'm with aliens, definitely, I...we're probing. Stuff. Decent blokes like but not people you wanna keep waiting-"

"Excellent, can I ask you for a simple description of your supreme overlords, good chap?"

"They're...monkeys. They're monkeys who can talk 'n stuff, super-intelligent. I think one might be a lawyer or something. They have very clean hands" answered Wheatley.

"Oh, splendid! These are obviously advanced lifeforms originating from Earth. Very exciting...now, my good chap, would you have any...alien circuit diagrams, I have a personal collection that is-"

"What? No. NO!" Wheatley reminded himself to discard the connection cable after he was done. What a pervert...

"Oh, well...as you are alien technology, I would like to extend our greetings. This ship is the Solor and is the exclusive property of Taurus Incorporated, the being on-board, if broken, should be returned to Aperture Science-"

"Aperture Science?" spluttered Wheatley. "What about that? Go back, rewind, stop! Go back to Aperture Science!"

Wheatley hoped She didn't have anything to do with this ship or life could become very uncomfortable indeed. It made being back outside look like an attractive proposition, maybe if he took a deck of cards with him or something to keep him occupied, it might not be so bad the second time around.

"-unless you have decided to eat him or her. This is a good moment to tell you that our specimens are fed a mix of medication throughout their working cycle to ensure clear results. Ingesting these medications may lead to dizzyness, hair growth in unusual places and almost certain instant death-"

The paper-clip paused, peering at Wheatley through a pair of glasses it had acquired at some point. "You wish to know about Aperture Science, good chum?"

"Well, yeah. What exactly do you mean by the body on this ship belonging to them?"

"You need to follow me to the video library, if you don't mind, watch the apples and pears, haha. Little joke, you understand, quite fascinated by the fact the monkeys programmed you to talk like a Northerner, nothing more confusing than a clever Northerner, is there?" the Smart Box chatted on. "Quite a brilliant move on their part, well, we're at the video library. You'll be wanting document 56A on the subject of Taurus/Aperture Science missions. Please understand that Aperture Science are just suppliers and do not promote or endorse the ideals of Taurus, good chap"

"Yeah, sure buddy, I'll keep that in mind" muttered Wheatley. Somewhere along the way, the paper-clip had gained a tie. And a pocket protector. For a shirt he didn't have. What an idiot. "Could you put this recording on for me?"

"Of course, our primitive technology probably looks like a Lite-Brite to you, doesn't it? No problem, good chum, enjoy"

Wheatley watched the paper-clip out of the corner of his eye fade away, then turned his attention onto the film. There was the little countdown he enjoyed, then a camera focusing in a small room. A woman stepped in from the left and cleared her throat.

"Good day to you, honourable investors! This is a video presentation for Aperture Science's recycling resources program, designed to help you" - the woman pointed outwards, causing Wheatley to look behind him in confusion - "gain real and meaningful results. Aperture Science is currently running a personality enhancement program that has led to a surplus of materials that we have recycled for your use"

The scene shifted to the woman walking along a corridor. "Aperture Science knows that results are important and unbiased, clear results are the aim of any establishment looking to make serious contributions, we understand your concerns here at Aperture and we sincerely want to help you"

Now for some reason, the woman was kneeling and drinking a cup of tea. "Honoured investors, I'm certain you will find the following video will answer all your questions, arigatou gozaimasu."

The recording flickered to a dark room, filled with people looking down at a stage. The applause was deafening as a man, looking a little worn and mentally frayed, waving a arm as he walked off. He was replaced by another, nondescript, woman though Wheatley kept his eye on the man. Cave Johnson. He sat in a chair and every so often the woman looked at him as if for reassurance.

"Good afternoon to you all, I think we can all say that was an enlightening speech by Mr. Johnson." she blushed and looked down at her notes. "We at Aperture Science understand that our activities are being closely scrutinised by the government to ensure we're complying with all laws so we are very pleased to announce our new proposal, designed to enhance our current financial position, has been accepted-"

More thundering applause. A few hysterical shouts of 'Cave!' - mostly from women - scattered throughout gave cause for the woman at the podium to glance at him, raising his hand in acknowledgement, her mouth moved in a almost invisible sigh.

"As legal and open for investment. Those of you we have kept informed of this process, we appreciate your support and can reveal the first ten products of this new venture" she turned to a screen behind her and a slideshow began.

Morendez, Stork, Krychoski - all humans looking frankly a little daft, mouths hanging open, eyes glazed over - Wheatley, Garett-

Wheatley.

This Wheatley looked like the byproduct of a giraffe and a major mistake. His sandy coloured hair, blue eyes and mouth, though ajar, turned down at the corners. It all combined to look nothing like a Wheatley. And Wheatley knew what a Wheatley looked like.

"What happened to the Wheatley one?" he choked out, hoping this was all a horrible malfunction of his understanding processor.

"Ah, my good sir, you called?" chirped the paper-clip.

"Yeah, yeah...just wanted to know what happened to the guy with the stupid hair, Wheatley"

"Funny thing that, my chum and you will get a giggle from this - he's the on-board specimen but I suppose your monkey overlords have already dealt with him, correct? If you could tell them that doing so will result in legal action-"

"Shut up! Shut up, you daft...stupid piece of wire! Just tell me about Aperture Science's personality thingymajig"

"No need to be personal, sir" huffed the paper-clip. "I assume you mean the personality core program?"

"Yes, hurry up or you'll have some angry monkey overlords to deal with" snapped Wheatley. He just needed to know it was a coincidence, a funny twist of fate. Hadn't he been designed as unique? All he was ever meant to be was Wheatley...

"Well, good chap, the personality core program was developed by Aperture Science to isolate a personality, if you will, in the most basic sense really to regulate a greater AI presence, the leftovers were placed in the recycling venture they started to claw back some money-"

"Wheatley is a personality core now?"

"I suppose, in the abstract, yes. The technology was designed to take what they wanted from a person so the remains still has mostly intact memories and mental functioning which we then use medication and sleep conditioning to control"

"And Wheatley is on this space ship in a squishy body?"

"Well, yes..." the paper-clip raised an eyebrow. "Why do monkeys want to know this?"

"No reason" murmured Wheatley, ejecting himself from the program.

* * *

><p>Spacesuit was not pleased with the tardiness or the reluctant bobbing that marked Wheatley's passage across the room. If he didn't know better, he would have said the unit was downcast but he did know better.<p>

"So, Aperture Science?" he asked. The unit's optic squeezed shut. "Report your findings, unit"

"...it's you. You're Wheatley" the unit bleated. It sank to the floor with a thud and powered down.

The unit has suffered massive damage as a result of consulting the Smart Box program, obviously. Pulling out cords and attachments, the man connected the unit to a visual playback device and after a few moments, the screen flickered to life.

It was not what he expected.

Not at all.

* * *

><p>AN: How will squishy Wheatley adjust to being the leftover emotional bits from core Wheatley? Will squishy Wheatley run off with Chell? How exactly did Wheatley end up as a personality sphere anyway? Find out soon!


	3. Chapter 3: We Hate It When

The Long Apology

Chapter 2: We Hate It When Our Friends Become Successful.

Summary: A young, slightly pedantic, scientist catches the eye of Cave Johnson. Step back, it sepia-toned flashback time!

A/N: I still don't own any of this stuff. Wheatley's backstory is mostly my own creation melded with bits of canon wherever I could bash them in with my imagination hammer. Chell will make an appearance soon, I promise. As usual, a million thankyous to my beta-reading core who corrects me at every turn and still manages to make me feel better about my mistakes.

* * *

><p>We Hate It When Our Friends Become Successful<p>

* * *

><p><strong>BEEEEEEEP.<strong>

_Hi everyone, you've reached the office of Wheatley and the Ants - ridicule ain't nothing to be scared of! Ahem - anyway, I'm real busy with science at the moment so just leave a message and my assistant will get back to you, thanks._

_"Wheatley? It's your mum, Wheatley. I know you're very busy with your project but it wouldn't kill you to ring me. I sent some jars of Marmite over to you because I know they don't have it in Yankeeland, took me ages to fill out the paperwork at the post-office and did you know Rosa, you know the lesbian who went to the arty collage next door to yours, well she's only gone and set herself up at home with Mandy down the road. They're looking to adopt a kid, not my way but all the best luck to them, I've put some flowers on the grave for you, son, just...ring back, your mum worries and she knows she's a daft old thing doing that but...I love you, Wheatley"_

* * *

><p>Once upon a time, on a planet smack in the middle of nowhere interesting in particular, a plump woman with cornflower blue eyes and a tall, bespectacled man laboured through the physical aspect of their martial union to produce a baby boy called Wheatley.<p>

He was a ordinary toddler, growing up in a normal terraced house, his mum bought pop off a man in a van and blushed whenever the milkman came by on Fridays for his money and flirted with her. His mum hadn't seen much romance in her time and a whiskered, quasi-Tom Jones lookalike was quite easy on her eyes. Less so to Wheatley's dad's, admittedly myopic, eyes.

Wheatley had a standard education at a local primary, where he kissed Kimberley Hunter during a fraught game of kiss-chase and then cried that night when she said she didn't like him and kissed him because of the game and nothing else. He was the sort of boy that exasperated teachers as he was obviously bright, just hopeless at applying himself, as teachers would write, being no help at all, on school reports.

Wheatley excelled at tiny things. Spinning coins, making birdfeeders which he faithfully filled every morning with bacon fat and building plastic airplanes from kits his dad ordered from the red tops. Above his bed hung a never-ending dogfight. At night, the television told him he'd be eating pills on the moon in twenty years. It was exciting to look up at the moon and try to pick out where he'd be living one day.

He walked himself home from school every day, unlocking the backdoor with a key from under the mat, and always drank a glass of milk and had a piece of toast. He had done so since he was eight. Lots of kids did the same on his street, the only difference was they'd go out and roam the concrete town centre, the older ones drinking cheap cider and the younger ones tagging along, being irritating and showing off alternatively. Wheatley preferred staying inside. It was safer.

Due to his overall gawkyness, thick rimmed glasses and inability to string a sentence together in front of a woman, he had been firmly labelled as a nerd when he started high school. A series of science teachers had tried to impose their beliefs and systems on the young, pliable clay of Wheatley and all had failed. The most that could be said about Wheatley and science was that it wasn't the worst combination and it would keep him out of trouble. If only some P.E. teacher had harnessed that puppydog energy and desire to please into high jumps and basketball, he might have been a sports star but now, he was just the West Country's leading expert on ants.

He liked ants. Always did. Building funfairs for them when he was younger out of mud, leaves and twigs in the washing up bowl from the kitchen. Who knew what an ant thought? Ants fitted in everywhere, there were no misplaced gangly ants that was for sure. Wheatley could tell you the mating habits of every ant species but still broke out into a cold sweat at the thought of a girl. Ants had things so easy.

His current experiment was rather interesting, could Woodstock be replicated with ants? He had set up a rather chaotic, muddy ant farm, complete with tiny stage and was pumping a cloud of marijuana over it every five minutes. He had decided that Hendrix was universally beloved by ants and humans but Duran Duran had left them cold.

He wondered idly if they'd like Queen. Who didn't? He quite liked being at the student union, throwing back a watery lager with the lads (friends implied some sort of connection and these was more people Wheatley blended in with and was tolerated by) listening to Queen roaring on the staticky sound system.

_It's a machines world  
>Don't tell me I ain't got no soul<br>When the machines take over  
>It ain't no place for rock and roll<em>

He needed a girlfriend.

"Hey up, Wheetabix, come down for a quick one?"

It was Kyle, from robotics, he had snuck into Wheatley's stash for the ants and raided it, constructing a spliff from notebook paper and a lot of cannabis. It hung from his hand casually and Wheatley felt a flare of irritation at the brazenness of it all. He also wished he was home, with his mum.

"No, thanks. Watching the ants"

"No. Thanks. Watching the ants, mission declined" Kyle echoed back robotically, strolling off. He probably hadn't wanted Wheatley to come outside with him and if he had, it was only to brag about getting his hand up the lab assistant's skirt. The lab assistant Wheatley had fancied. Funnily enough, knowing that Kyle had had his hand up there had made her less alluring and the following day when they were in the supplies cupboard alone and she had bent over to reveal a lack of knickers had sent him catapulting across the corridor, back to his ant sanctuary.

He needed someone on the same wavelength, he knew that. Someone who would understand what he was doing here. What he was really doing.

Little did Wheatley, of West Country Polytechnic, realise that someone was very interested in what he was doing. The understanding part was what he brought to the table since no scientist told Cave Johnson how to understand their work. There was no point.

* * *

><p>"Ants" repeated the male assistant, unaccustomed to his new boss's rapid-shot orating style. "You want an ant division, a subdivision of the mantis department?" he ventured.<p>

"A whole new department, we really need to crack the whole thing wide open-" his boss said, glancing at his personal assistant who was regarding the newcomer with a cool mixture of sympathy and impatience. "Caroline will show you where the official letterheads are and don't let this guy grab you by the balls. He's just some guy in a limey backwater school, you need to call the shots but here's how much you can offer him-"

"Mr. Johnson, with all respect, our finances are not particularly - actually - really -"

"Try and get him under eighty percent of the usual rate then" the man cut him off. "And don't tell me about my own company, Caroline has all the figures I need, Chad"

"My name is Todd" murmured the assistant, remembering the jibes of the others in the staffroom about Cave's notorious inability to remember names or simply rechristening people because his proposed name was 'better'. Chad wasn't an improvement but 'Cave knows best!' wasn't the unofficial company motto for nothing.

* * *

><p><strong>BEEEEEEEP.<strong>

_Hi everyone, you've reached the office of Wheatley and the Ants - ridicule ain't nothing to be scared of! Ahem - anyway, I'm real busy with science at the moment so just leave a message and my assistant will get back to you, thanks._

_"Wheatley, I keep ringing Aperture but they're saying you're working really hard on this project - personality something or other - I'm not the brains of the family, never was, you know...wouldn't remember where my head was if it wasn't attached to me - can't you ring your mother at least once every six months? That Kyle boy came back from China today, he's going to teach at the comprehensive on Blackwater Street, you know the one, that used to be the grammar school. Think he's teaching Maths, he said. Asked about you and your job in America...we're all so proud of you, Wheatley, please don't let Christmas go by without a phonecall, love" _

* * *

><p>Wheatley rolled over, tapping his alarm clock to silence, then rolled back onto his tummy. His pyjamas were worn through on the elbows so he tucked his arms back underneath the duvet and looked up at the dusty plastic dogfight above him. A German plane was spinning around lopsided, having snapped from two of its wires, twirling in a never-ending nosedive.<p>

It summed up how Wheatley felt about his life. Submitting studies to tiny independent academic journals, watching Kyle sneak off with any girl who drifted past him, eating Marmite sandwiches and taking his mum to Bingo on Thursday nights. He wanted to do something, he wanted to change the world.

Just like every other guy on the planet. Except he would give anything to do so. Sure he wanted a girlfriend, god, his laboured panting and near tears some nights made him feel the only thing that could fix everything was a girlfriend but he'd give it up to change the world. Henry Cavendish was a reclusive oddball but had worked out the density of the planet. People remembered the latter impressed and the former indulgently because he had done something amazing. Wheatley didn't want to live on the Moon anymore, he just wanted something to hope for.

Who would remember him? He glanced at the alarm clock, twenty past seven, he really needed to get up. Tramping downstairs, he could smell scrambled eggs and toast, his mum was already awake.

"Wheatley, I've got the cornflakes out for you - you can have the top of the milk if you want to. I'm going to the grave today, son, if you want to come with me"

"I'm busy with my study, mam, but I'll stop by on my way home. I promise" he said, stirring his cereal into a pale orange mush. "The ants are coming into day four of Antstock and it's getting a little rumbustious"

"Sounds very interesting, love" his mum replied faintly. "Oh, you've got a letter from the States, looks pretty official, wonder if it's from NASA or something, for my little brainbox"

_Maybe the FBI finally got my letter about wanting to apply..._

The envelope was bleach-white, the kind of white Wheatley associated with actors and Hollywood, with a reassuring thickness to the paper. He tore it open and read the first sentence several times, a spoonful of claggy cornflakes half-raised to his mouth.

_You have been selected to come study and develop the Ant Department at Aperture Science, U.S.A..._

He flipped the page over, suspiciously, then noticed the fine Aperture Science logo watermark weaved into the paper. No faking that. It wasn't a trick. It was real!

"Mam, take a look at this" choked Wheatley. "I think I've got a job or something"

Wheatley felt like he might explode with delight. After promising to come straight home after his work at the polytechnic, so his mum could do the bragging rounds on the phone, he had practically flew on his bicycle there. The wind whipped through his hair, icy droplets of rain stung his face and still his spirit soared. It was better than England winning the World Cup. Better than squished Marmite sandwiches. Better than a million kisses from a million page 3 models.

Looking up at the faded building with its chipboard panels, he couldn't help but feel that sense of nostalgia you do for a place you never will miss but feel you should do. The letter has included a phone number but his mum wasn't keen on the international phone call so he hoped he could do it at his office/workroom, slipping in, feeling a little like James Bond, he got to his room without being noticed and sat on his chair, perfectly still. Then the need to be frivolous overwhelmed him and he spun around until he got dizzy.

"Yes!" he shouted, the echo seemed to wrap around him in reassurance, as he tapped in the phone number. An eternity until a human voice, crackly, answered.

"Aperture Science, Recruitment, how may I direct your call?"

"Oh, um, hi. I'm Wheatley and I got this letter, like, from you and it said about the ant thing?" he felt like his mouth was full of peanut butter. The pause on the other end gave him plenty of time to cringe over his awkwardness, running his hand through his hair, and for some reason checking his breath. I really have to get my hair cut before I go...

"Oh, yes. West Country Polytechnic School? We have booked your flights for the next Thursday and you'll be brought straight to our facility, Wheatley. Good to have you on the team, you'll get the relevant documentation through in the next few days. Don't worry about the visa, we organise that for you. Bye"

"But-"

She was already gone and something told him ringing back wasn't an option so he placed the receiver back in the cradle. Next Thursday? They must really want him there...

He was interrupted by Kyle barging in, trying to cadge some more pot and a ballpoint pen. Seeing Wheatley was trying to set up a tiny beaded jewellery store at Antstock, he leaned on his desk, breathing in and out in a annoyingly loud and nasally way.

"So, I got me some work experience in China working at a theme park making Chairman Meow robots, they have this well mental idea for a comedy communist cat cascade, should be well funny" he said, punctuating his words with his finger guns shooting up the place. "How about you, spunkface?"

Wheatley looked up at him with an expression close to arrogance.

"Well, Kyle" he started, taking his glasses off to polish the lenses. "I've got a job at Aperture motherfucking Science so please, sod off so I can get on with my study"

* * *

><p><strong>BEEEEEEEP.<strong>

_Hi everyone, you've reached the office of Wheatley and the Ants - ridicule ain't nothing to be scared of! Ahem - anyway, I'm real busy with science at the moment so just leave a message and my assistant will get back to you, thanks._

_"W-w-wheatley, itsa mam, jussh sayin' have a good new year and be a good boy - your cousin is here wizsha the kids, been askin' about their uncle Wheatley all day, they love you. I love you, son. I'm only a little drunk-"_

* * *

><p>Wheatley wasn't a natural flyer. Despite knowing the names for each individual component of a Spitfire, the idea of zooming over the ocean in what seemed like a glorified sardine tin left him paralysed with uncertainty. He had read somewhere you were more likely to be killed by a donkey than die in a plane crash but those were lies, obvious lies, spread by airlines.<p>

His mum had been surprised by the swift departure, though Wheatley had gotten his head around it surprisingly quickly. No point in dragging out destiny. This was how exciting things happened - instantly - and he was a person that exciting things happened to now. Even the complementary packet of luxury mixed nuts in the waiting lounge screamed excitement, success, the future as he munched on them, trying to maintain a bland expression as he watched planes take off.

His carryon bag contained the following; a hardback copy of 'Limes to Oranges: How To Succeed In The American Workplace', a jar of Marmite, yesterday's Guardian with half of the crossword done (Wheatley hoped he could finish it on the plane), his passport, a change of underwear, travel sickness pills, a Gameboy, a Tetris cartridge and some mittens his mother had, in an ill-judged moment, knitted for him for his trip. America was proper boiling hot, he had told her, but she said she had to.

He felt his throat tighten at the thought of leaving this all behind, sure there would be Christmas breaks and the odd yearly trip over, but everything he knew would be left behind to change without him. There was plenty to be happy about leaving behind but his mum, his plastic planes, that loose floorboard in his room where he hid things, not even bad stuff, his Dad's grave, even the rain. He'd miss those.

He trudged past the boarding desk and it wasn't until the plane had taken-off and reached optimum altitude that he felt Wheatley, the Wheatley who lived a normal life in a normal terraced house, fall away like a fog of bad memories. America was, after all, the land of opportunity.

The food was disgusting, a cottage pie where the gravy was more like warm, soppy jelly and a few measly peas, though Wheatley thanked the attendant profusely, blushing under her fussy administrations, insisting he relax, have a drink. She asked him where he was going.

"I'm going to work at Aperture Science, it's the biggest scientific facility in the whole US, you know. Should be quite an adventure" he said, adding a laugh that two-hours ago Wheatley would have consciously regretted instantly. "I'm going to be in charge of a department there"

"Bit of a brainbox are you then?" she asked, locking eyes with his. Wheatley nodded, affecting an air of casual importance, watching her move along the aisle, tea or coffee, she didn't stop to talk to chit-chat with anyone else and Wheatley felt gratified.

The next few hours, he wiggled his way through some fiendish clues on the crossword and read 'Limes to Oranges' before slipping into a dream about developing exploding limes at Aperture Science.

* * *

><p>Caroline frowned, the reports were looking increasingly doubtful about the profitability of some of Mr. Johnson's more personal pet-projects, a trend that accountants gloomily blamed for lack of running costs. So far, they had only needed to remove some of the pro-gratis vending machines and cut the cafeteria hours but more had to be done.<p>

Mr. Johnson worked harder than anyone so Caroline didn't mind this, the grunt work, the bits and pieces that caused everyone to complain. She'd overheard several employees moaning bitterly about the withdrawal of free candy from the machines, highlighting her at the instigator, some sort of candy snatcher from underneath the bed.

How did it get this bad? she wondered, she slipped a pencil into her bun for safekeeping while running a finger down a column of expanding costs. The military was over saturated with shower curtains, she smiled at that, Mr. Johnson was very proud of his military achievements, as he should be.

Sure, she had a crush on her boss. She reassured herself early on, during the fumbling with words and blushing phase, that it was common for people to be attracted to one another in the workplace based on shared interests, mutual ambition and physical proximity. It was not advisable to act upon those feelings. She never had really questioned if she even wanted to do anything about it. What she had with Mr. Johnson was more than any lover or wife could have. She had his trust and respect, his daily company, access to his thoughts and the imposed belief that she could do anything on his order. He needed her.

She was happy. Completely. Totally.

And she certainly didn't feel her eyes burn with tears when Mrs. Johnson rang and asked for him to come home, to spend some time with just her. Not at all.

* * *

><p>America was a blur.<p>

Wheatley had been greeted by a friendly Aperture Science staff-member who introduced himself using his D&D name, Morlock, or something like that. He had handed Wheatley a goodie-bag of Aperture branded items - a t-shirt, an employee pin badge, for some reason a shower curtain - and ushered him out of the airport at breakneck speed.

"We're always moving at Aperture, Wheats, that's what makes us dynamic. We're just a bunch of maniacs, haha"

"Yeah, I was going to ask you something-"

He stopped as something-like-Morlock unlocked a minivan emblazoned with the sleek Aperture logo and threw his luggage, devil-may-care, into the back while motioning Wheatley to go sit in the front passenger seat.

"What's that, homeboy?" something-like-Morlock asked, skidding out of the car-park. Grit smashed against the side of the minivan, making Wheatley wince, as they somehow teleported right into a crowded free-way in two seconds flat.

"Do I have to find my own place to live-"

"Nah, just get a fold-out couch or futon for your office. Should be big enough. They got a staff shower area and the food ain't bad, it's like you never left college, man. It's killer, I'm in the programming department and it's totally wild, all-night coding and random espresso breaks only they've gone and made the candy machines paycard only which freakin' sucks, man, it's like...we need the sugar, you get me?"

"Live at Aperture?" repeated Wheatley, bewildered by the combined assault of casual parlance and information. "Is that okay? Is that normal?"

"We all live at Aperture, bro, you never leave 'cause you don't wanna, amazing place" said something-like-Morlock. "You're just gonna love it, man"

* * *

><p><strong>BEEEEEEEP.<strong>

_Hi everyone, you've reached the office of Wheatley and the Ants - ridicule ain't nothing to be scared of! Ahem - anyway, I'm real busy with science at the moment so just leave a message and my assistant will get back to you, thanks._

_"Wheatley? I got your card, post office said it got held up, it's a bit late...better late than never though, son. I know you're busy with important things, I hope you've met a nice girl, Wheatley, you should have someone to look after you since well, I'm not getting any younger, am I? Ah, listen to me...I'm sorry for being daft, son, I love you. If you can ring, ring but I understand that you can't. Love you"_

* * *

><p>Aperture was just like something-like-Morlock had said, the building was a functional, clean design surrounded by Japanese-style zen gardens. There was no sign of human life and despite the murky dusk heat, Wheatley shivered.<p>

"Well, here we are, Wheats, suppose you wanna dive in and get started?"

"Yeah, yeah...just get my stuff and catch up"

Something-like-Morlock waited instead, allowing Wheatley no moment to gather his thoughts which were leaping around inside his brain like hyperactive rabbits at a birthday party. Walking towards the doorway, shiny chrome and glass, he could see a reception area, strangely stark for a corporate building that also, apparently, served as a dorm for the workers. A woman was sitting at a desk, hair in a severe bun, knitting underneath a Aperture logo.

"Hi" ventured Wheatley. The interactions with the female side of the species was hitting a daily all-time high score. "I'm here for the Ant Department?"

The woman didn't bother looking up "You need to report to Mr. Johnson. Top floor" she jerked her head towards the elevator.

"Um, thanks"

Something-like-Morlock had gone now, probably off to slay an orc or something, and Wheatley became aware of the damp patches under his arms. He wished he knew where the toilet was, just to freshen up but in perfect obedience to the instructions from the receptionist, he had gone to the elevator and spent the ride examining his teeth in the shiny walls.

Which is how Cave Johnson came to lay eyes on Wheatley delicately cleaning his teeth with a fingernail.

"Hi there"

For any other person, it would have been a question but Cave just wanted the answer with no fuss.

"I'm Wheatley, from West Country Poly-"

"Ahhh, Cornflake, how was the flight?" he didn't seem to talk, just boom across the room and hope he didn't explode your eardrums. Political rallies should have modelled their loudspeakers on his voice. "Sorry I couldn't meet you personally" he added, without much commitment. Wheatley had the feeling Cave had never met any employee personally at the airport.

"This is my personal assistant, Caroline" he motioned to the corner. Wheatley startled as he set eyes on the women to his side, slightly obscured by the sheer force of Cave's personality. "She answers to me alone and everyone answers to her, it's a good system we have here and we don't want anyone rocking the boat, right, Cornflake?"

"Right" stumbled Wheatley, his mouth dry and sticky. There was a fan on Cave's desk but it was off, he longed to be able to reach out and turn it on or sit down even.

"I want you to start this Ant Department but at the moment we've got a lot going on, I want to be personally involved with this project, Cornflake, so I'm going to put you with the Mantis Department...maybe float you around a bit so you get a feel for what we do here. We're an environment where excelling is only meeting the standard and you need to understand our culture here at Aperture, that's why no-one leaves after all" he laughed and Wheatley looked away awkwardly as Caroline smiled appreciatively, as if holding back laughter herself. "I think you could do great things here but I expect the impossible, understand?"

Wheatley, remembering 'Limes and Oranges' nodded tirelessly, America was great!

* * *

><p>It was rare that they left together, Caroline usually stayed behind until the early hours of the morning before snatching a few, fitful, hours of sleep at the tiny apartment she had in the city. Cave left on the dot, every day, that was his way so Caroline felt the familiar heat of a blush when she saw they were leaving at the same time, she felt guilty. Perhaps she should go back and monitor the - no, she needed this. She was tired.<p>

"Night, sir" she called over to him, he looked up, surprised.

"Leaving so soon?"

"Headache" smiled Caroline with a shrug. "There isn't anything too important happening for the next eight hours, sir"

He seemed less at ease here, in the open, his hand clutching the door handle to his car in a way reminded her that he was older. He cleared his throat.

"I need to talk to you, privately, Caroline - not here, somewhere busy, noisy - there's a bar I know"

Drinking with her boss was not one of Caroline's fondest hopes, it implied little frothy drinks with tiny umbrellas, awkward conversation and the eventual goodbye. She would be so close, it would be unbearable to walk away from him afterwards.

She followed him anyway, her tiny car weaving behind his, the bar was on a backroad, a wooden structure reeking of tobacco, urine and vodka. A few pickup trucks and a dog outside howling completed the rustic motif the bar had seemingly adopted.

Cave ordered a pint of something, golden brown foamy stuff, that Caroline disliked the smell of. After a lengthy explanation, she had managed to order a water. Cave tried to gently persuade her to get something a little stronger and she felt a flutter of anticipation, fear.

Cosily sat in a booth in the corner, within hearing distance of a man slowly murdering a classic rock song, Cave looked at home despite everything being so far from Aperture, his stronghold, and he let a few moments pass comfortably.

"Sir?"

"Caroline"

"Is this a meeting?" she asked blandly, warily looking around. It was difficult to tell if it was meeting or something different, a date perhaps. A invitation to something more.

"In a way, Caroline, it's the most important meeting we'll ever have. You never tell anyone about this conversation"

"I'd never-"

"I know"

A few more moments, Cave's breath smelt like the beer now. Sour and bitter.

"The yearly medical results aren't good, Caroline"

Every year Cave's physician insisted he slow down, cut back his duties, delegate and every year Cave insisted it was poppycock and he'd do just fine working as he always had. It was keeping him alive, fit and healthy.

"I understand if you want me to take on more work, sir."

He nodded. "You'll be taking on all the work, Caroline"

Retiring? No. He couldn't. Caroline grabbed her purse, rummaging for her car keys, if she left now, then he couldn't tell her and things would be normal in the morning, everything in its place. He reached over, pulled her hand away and laid it flat on the table, beneath his.

"Listen here, you will do this. I'm not hanging on, becoming a goddamn potato in a hospital, you're going to help me-"

"I can't do that"

"Religious guilt, kiddo?" his voice was heavy with disdain. "Science can't save me though I wish it could, wouldn't that be something? Aperture breaking mortality apart, making it a non-issue, can you imagine living forever?"

Caroline shook her head.

"I'll know soon how much longer I've got before everything starts failing on me, then you'll help me"

"I can't do that, sir" she considered saying why, that Aperture Science needed him, his family needed him, that she loved him but nothing could stop Cave, not even her loving him. Her stupid little work crush. "Please let me help you, we can do research...Science can help you"

Cave drained the last of his drink, tossed a few dollar bills on the table and walked off. Caroline watched him, her heart pounding, she would go back to Aperture tonight. She would find a way. No matter what it took.

* * *

><p>Wheatley was rapidly sinking. He had been, as Kyle might have put it, royally shafted by the new regime at Aperture Science. Rebels, newcomers, ladder climbers - all of these people might have worked the change to their advantage but Wheatley wasn't a cloak-and-daggar type. He felt unequipped to wield a butter knife sometimes.<p>

In the six months he had been here, he had met the lead 'wrangler' at the Mantis Department, Adam Cable, who wore t-shirts saying things like 'see dos run' and 'the true language of love is Klingon' a grand total of...once.

"As you see, this is our holding pen for the mantis...I know it's typical to call them" - and here he used excessive air-quotes - "Praying Mantis but we prefer the name Strongly Protesting Atheist Mantis-"

"Spam, then?"

"Pardon?"

"Spam...that's what Strongly Protesting Atheist..." Wheatley trailed off. "Nevermind"

Adam Cable had not protested when Wheatley was suddenly removed from his presence under the guise of 'corporate restructuring' and shoved into this office, miserably inputting data and checking over paperwork. None of it had anything to do with ants.

The one time he had left Aperture Science since he came was to ring his mum, early on paranoia had led him to believe he was being closely monitored, common sense now told him that was indeed the case and all he could do was smile at the cameras. She had been so proud of him, pressing him for a number for his department that he garbled something about wonky phone lines and ran back to Aperture, feeling horribly overexposed. He had sent her a number that went through to a cheerfully, lying answering machine message and hoped that things would turn around again for him.

Like people said, no-one ever left Aperture Science, it was all here for you. Showers, food, everyone was shagging someone (or some people) apart from him, predictably. It was like living in a horny super-genius dome and being the dome idiot. He knew his performance was up for review. He knew it would be bad. His knowledge did not spread much further than those two facts in relation to his career at Aperture.

All he knew was ants and they had him looking at the properties of moon rocks, feeding in data about the effect it had on the human body (he was fairly sure he'd cocked that one up) and now at robotics. Bloody robotics.

Being alone with his thoughts was a bit like listening to The Smiths endlessly so Wheatley grudgingly dragged himself to the break room next door, Morlock and Mikayla were there as they always seemed to be, trying to hack the candy machine.

There was a lot of explosions going on the other side of the building, this had worried Wheatley a little at first, but seeing the children of Aperture employees (did anyone go home to their families in this damn place?) go about their business as if nothing was going on had steeled his resolve. Still, he was glad he wasn't holding his mug, the one with 'Wheats' scrawled on it in sharpie.

"Sounds like Mom and Dad aren't getting along too well" Morlock said with a low whistle. "I hate it when they argue!" he mimicked a teenager, complete with theatrical stomping on the spot.

"Mom and Dad?"

"He means Cave and Caroline, they never argue - she just twists her mouth just so and he tells her to get on with it...she probably is so grateful to Science not actually being married to him-" chimed Mikayla, her mouth working on a brown wad of sugary gloop.

"Mr. Johnson is married?" Wheatley asked. He couldn't imagine Cave Johnson driving home to a house in the suburbs, being surrounded by children and wearing a 'Weiner King' apron while standing at a BBQ. The image was somewhat, oddly, perverse.

"Yep, years ago. Some rich broad who comes around here once a year - she's ploughed most of her inheritance into this place - and says 'how interesting' to everything. It must be hell going home to a vapid bimbo like that for him" clucked Mikayla, pouring a black coffee into a cheerful Aperture Science mug with a Mantis Man on it. "Caroline is the only other employee with actual office hours, y'know, not that she notices. She goes home at two, back at six...you know she's gonna to run this place after he's gone and it just kills Mrs. Johnson knowing it"

"...think that's going to be soon?" asked Wheatley, crestfallen at his vandalised mug - Wheats had been scrubbed out, replaced with 'moron' and a demeaning smiley face - which he discreetly covered with his palm.

"He's not looking too great, why? You after his job, Wheats?" asked Morlock, sniggering.

"Wheats, you just need to find your niche here" said Mikayla, ever more perceptive, gently. "They can't fire you after six months, besides, you could stay on as a test subject-"

Wheatley couldn't bear this anymore. Being treated as some subhuman for not having a genius level grasp of astrophysics or maths or anything that wasn't ants.

His only way out was going back home...

It wasn't until Morlock was in his face, apologising, that Wheatley realised he was crying. Soundlessly. He wanted to howl, he wanted to throw his stupid mug at the wall, he just wanted to be appreciated for what he was but nothing came out apart from an embarrassing, strangled mewling sound. He heard Mikayla suggest going to the psychiatrist program and he nodded without much commitment. Just anything but this.

* * *

><p><strong>BEEEEEEEP.<strong>

_Hi everyone, you've reached the office of Wheatley and the Ants - ridicule ain't nothing to be scared of! Ahem - anyway, I'm real busy with science at the moment so just leave a message and my assistant will get back to you, thanks._

_"Wheatley, it's your mum. I saw Doctor Nicholson today and well...it's not great news but it's not bad either...he asked after you and I said you were doing fine, just fine...do you think you could get a-a-a holiday, Wheatley, love? I know you're busy and all but...I'd like you here with me, just for a bit. So I can make you some marmite on toast and we can go bingo a last time...and I can get all the organising out of the way, I won't hold you up getting back to your work. Think about it love, please...I love you"_

* * *

><p>There was to be no sentimental last gestures, no bouquet of flowers on her desk, no silent yet emotionally charged acknowledgement of years of dedicated service. She did not mind, saving Cave Johnson's life would be all the reward she could ever want.<p>

The personality core project, if successful, could act as a holding system for Cave's being while his body was frozen and a cure was researched - it sounded crazy, it probably was...was that why she hadn't approached him about it yet? Cave had let her have an unusually free rein with this project, at a time where the accountants were begging him to scrap some of the less profitable experiments, and she didn't want to let him down.

The only flaw was that she needed test subjects. Cole, down at the core division, had told her it was a one way trip - maybe they could find a way of putting the personality back but it was a long way away - he had been very frightened to tell her, he said. He knew how important this project had become to her.

The worst case scenario was that it would fail and they'd be left with oatmeal for brains. No astronaut would sign up for that. No-one in their right mind...

And just like that, the solution presented itself. There were several under-performing employees right here at Aperture, with exactly the exaggerated personality aspects that Cole had told her would be most effectively transferred, and as she flicked through the psychiatry program files, she began to feel that trembling inside, the sensation of approaching success.

Exaggerated superego disorder, obsessive compulsive tendencies...a few people here fitted the specs as it they had been made for that very purpose. Who would miss them? No-one had a life outside of Aperture anyway. Wasn't Science about great sacrifice? For the greater good?

Preserving Cave Johnson wasn't just important to her, it was absolutely vital for Aperture, for Science.

* * *

><p>Dr. Betters, despite his name, was not a very nice psychiatrist. He seemed to get very tired of Wheatley very quickly and smoked incessantly, even though Wheatley had politely asked him not to. He had settled for having a oxygen break halfway through the session, where he'd sit in the waiting area, head in hands and wonder where it'd all gone so wrong. He'd rather not dwell on it but Dr. Betters insisted that Wheatley knew where it had gone wrong and needed to face it, head on.<p>

"Since our last session, it's been recorded that you spent fifty-two minutes in a toilet cubicle during a meeting of the robotics department, Wheatley, this is not progress" he sighed, blowing a cloud of smog into Wheatley's face. "What bothers you so much?"

"I don't know, really, just...I came here to set up the Ant Department-"

At first, Dr. Betters, having no knowledge of the proceeding events, had assumed the 'Ant Department' was a delusion of Wheatley's and had been very firm on the subject of delusions. Reading up on Wheatley's file, he was staggered at how impulsive Cave had been in bringing the young man here but he was here and it was his job to hammer him into the Aperture mentality.

"You aren't a total idiot, Wheatley, your past records indicate a certain level of capability"

Wheatley swallowed back his tears, Dr. Betters was no good with crying. It made him uncomfortable.

"I know...I just, get worried about making mistakes and then I make them and I can't seem to stop myself-"

Dr. Betters took out a file and flicked through the pages, this was typical behaviour. He'd had been reading War & Peace through Wheatley's first appointments but had become frustrated with Wheatley's 'complaints' getting in the way.

"Wheatley, how would you like to be free to make mistakes? And not be punished?"

"That would be...it'd be wonderful. I mean, I try not to make-"

"There's an experiment being conducted concerning personality alignment and I think you're a good candidate for this, I mean, you'd be excellent at it. No question, I think it's in your best interests to agree to this, Wheatley. It would fix all your problems and I could get back to my novel"

"You really think so?"

"Certainly, Wheatley, I'm your therapist"

* * *

><p><strong>BEEEEEEEP.<strong>

_Hi everyone, you've reached the office of Wheatley and the Ants - ridicule ain't nothing to be scared of! Ahem - anyway, I'm real busy with science at the moment so just leave a message and my assistant will get back to you, thanks._

_"Wheatley, it's Rosa from down the road, your mam in a bad way and she's in hospital. Not sure how long she has, the doctor says she can come home tomorrow but just to make her comfortable, I'm really sorry about this mate. Think she'd appreciate a phone call, right? Right. Well, uh, I'll send her your love, bye"_

* * *

><p><strong>APERTURE SCIENCE: PERSONALITY CORE DIVISION <strong>

**Subject W. put under at 0800, personality transfer partially successful, engineers updating internal programming to help with damage. **

**Cave Johnson pleased with experiment, would like to see this refined on a larger and more complex scale, authorised the set-up of the GLaDOS program. Suggested personality of Caroline as ideal candidate. **

* * *

><p>AN: This seemed to take forever but it was lots of fun, I could have let it grow into a monster chapter but...yeah. So, next time should involve: core!Wheatley's elite hacking skills, discussions about, ahem, personal stuff and a Chell cameo. Yaaaay!


End file.
